


the real damage

by Gay_as_fuck



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Bonding, Friendship, Loneliness, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Underage Drinking, could be read as platonic or romantic, romanticising the teenage years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 11:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20692832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gay_as_fuck/pseuds/Gay_as_fuck
Summary: When Roddy knocks on Magnus' window, drunk on a weekday night, Magnus lets him in.





	the real damage

**Author's Note:**

> Me, writing a mtmte fic in 2019? Yes. 
> 
> Title is from "The Real Damage" by Frank Turner

The wind jostles the trees outside of Magnus' locked windows, shielding him from the early November chill. The few leaves still clinging to the branches tumble to the ground as the end of fall stubbornly approaches. It means buckling down into the workload of his senior year and helping his elderly neighbors shovel their snow when that too eventually comes. It's also the end of the track season, signaling his unfortunate return to the sweat-coated and germ-infested gym. 

He grimaces at the thought and makes a quick note to buy more hand sanitizer. He places his notepad back inside the tape line on his color-coordinated and ruler-straight desk. It matches the rest of his room, a place of order and peace outside the chaos of the rest of the world. It's freshly vacuumed and as dirt free as he can get it. He looks around his paradise, a proud smile working its way onto his face. He immediately drops the frivolous expression as he heard a knock on his door. He goes to open it and, upon finding the hall empty, he furrows his brow and stands still waiting for the noise again. 

When he hears it again everything makes sense as he recognizes the telltale notes of someone knocking on his window pane. He closes the door, locking it in anticipation for his guest, and pulls back his power blue curtains. There's an asshole on his garage roof, his face flushed and smiling. Magnus unlocks the window and wrenches it open, letting Roddy clamber in. His red converse track mud, dirt, and who knows what else along Magnus' recently repainted windowsill. Roddy's face is discolored with the cold, his nose bright and his skin gone pale. He's shivering, goosebumps rising along his bare arms where his orange short sleeve shirt leaves much to be desired for warmth. As always, he's wearing his orange headband which cuts the figure of some painfully American fighting game hero. 

Bruises track up his arms but Magnus doesn't bother to question him. His attention then goes to the half-empty bottle clenched in his fingerless gloved hands. Roddy fumbles with the cap and takes a swig, informing Magnus as to another reason for his flush. 

"What are you doing?" He asks, moving back so that Roddy could lean against the bed. He smiles wide as he settles down and leaves the cap on the bed. Magnus' eyebrow twitches as he reaches for the bottle cap, depositing it in his trash can. 

"Dealer scored me a bottle, figured you'd want a drink," Roddy sets down the bottle and wraps his arms around himself, his skin slowly turning back to its usual color. 

"You know I don't drink, especially not anything Dealer gives you." He glares as he speaks standing in front of Roddy and high above him. He flinches at that but his smile grows and he begins to speak in his usual animated fashion, his hand gestures a little more chaotic than usual. 

"Dealer didn't mean anything by it, it was funny. You just can't take a joke." Magnus refuses to let himself be angered by Roddy's statement. 

"I suppose I just don't get the joke but I doubt it." He responds and settles down on the floor cross-legged, which finally puts them on equal footing. Roddy has one leg extended, barely brushing against Magnus, while his other knee is tucked up against his chest. 

"You never do Mags," He lets out a groan and leans back enough to lay his head on the bed, "Sometimes I wonder why I even hang out with a scrub like you." Hate boils in his tone at the end though he bites back any significant change in volume. Magnus can no longer see his eyes but he knows they're glaring daggers. Magnus continues to sit still and tight, doing his best not to fiddle with his hands. He waits for him to speak again, the clock ticking away in the corner. Eventually, Roddy pulls himself back up and takes another drink from the bottle. He grimaces as it goes down, the expression somewhat hidden by the lip of the bottle. 

"Tastes like motor oil," Roddy mutters to himself and then takes another sip. Magnus takes the bottle from him and holds it close as the noxious scent rise up. It's the smell of soon to be vomit and burnt rubber mixed with Roddy's cheap cologne hanging around. It clings to everything with the strength of skunk spray. 

"Why are you drinking it then?" Magnus can't help but ask which draws a laugh from Roddy. It's a bitter noise that's a little rough on the ears. 

"To have fun." Magnus raises an eyebrow at that. 

"I doubt the amount of fun you're having now." 

"Well yeah, You're kind of a killjoy." 

"Then why are you here?" He asks again, trying to force out the truth.

"Cause I knew you'd let me in." He meets Magnus' gaze as he answers, eyes pained behind the glitter of his smile. Magnus can't help but wonder when it will slip but pushes the thought away. It's not something he wants to see. Roddy stares at the bottle in Magnus' hands, desperation bleeding from him. 

"C'mon, drink up. That shit's expensive." Magnus holds back the urge to remind him that Dealer was the one who got it anyways. He still can't help but glare at the thought. 

"Ease up, knowing you I'm not interrupting anything." Roddy tries to sooth, only earning a grumble from Mangus about a "good nights' sleep." He bursts into laughter and claps his companion on the shoulder. "Sleep is for the weak, these are the best years of our lives and you're going to spend them sleeping?"

"And you just spend it drinking alone on a Wednesday night!" Magnus finally snaps and pushes Roddy' arm off his shoulders. He doesn't respond for a moment, holding his hand where it had been thrown off. 

"Well, I'm not alone," is his eventually petulant reply as he returns his hand to lying limply by his side. 

"You invaded my privacy and arrived already drunk." He earns a huff of a laugh at that though it lacks humor. 

"You let me in." It's a simple fact that catches Magnus by surprise. He pauses in thought, though it barely shows on his face. Of course he let Roddy in, he had been at the window. It was cold out, and a school night and bruises covered Roddy's arms, all perfectly good reasons to let him in. Unfortunately, his ordered lists and logical analyses are useless, knowing somehow that something is missing. Roddy catches on despite Magnus' best attempt and smiles wider, his eyes lighting up as he dawns his action hero voice.

"ah-ha! Admit it, you love me." Magnus sighs and lifts the bottle to his lips, tasting the burning kiss on his tongue. He swallows all of it, his lungs burning as he gulps far too much of it in one go. After he finishes it off he sets the bottle down between the two of them. When he meets Roddy's eyes he steels himself with a deep breath, uncertain of what will even come out of his mouth. 

"I couldn't just leave you in the cold. I'll always let you in." Roddy grins at that, another nasty thing that warms itself into his chest and his heart. He leans back again and the smile is subdued down to a slight smirk. The white light of Magnus' room highlights his red hair, shaved on the sides and gelled forward where the front droops slightly. His jeans are deep blue though the knees have been worn down to nearly white. He's always running and would be a great pick for any of the sports teams, if only they could catch him. 

He's too much of a rebel for that, crafting the image of a classic hero, right out of an 80s movie. But there's so much to him that contradicts the desired look, bits of his personality peeking through. The chipped black polish on his nails, bruising on his arms, the worrying flush of his cheeks, his glassy eyes and chapped lips. He's shaking slightly, though he should be warm by now. There's a tremor in his hands which is usually hidden by how he speaks with him.

Here he is stilled for once, enough for Magnus to honestly look and him. He can't help that he doesn't like what he sees. He sees an asshole with dark circles under his eyes but he wants to run his fingers over them. He sees his best friend with a nic on the side of his wrist, just before the glove. He thumbs his own wrist in hopes to redirect the desire to bandage it. Nausea rises in his gut. Roddy makes him want to do stupid, vomit-inducing things, and there's no place he'd rather be. 

"I'll keep you to that," Roddy says as he lifts the empty bottle to examine the few drops remaining. He shakes it as a laugh is wrenched out of him. 

"Damn mags! The things you do to keep me from drinking." He sets it down again, right between them, with a sigh that takes the last of his energy. He slips further down against the bed as his shaking worsens. 

"Shit mags! The things you do- Shit!" He's shaking in extreme, his shoulders still moving despite how he presses them against the side of the bed. He turns his attention once more to the ceiling leaving Magnus wanting. His voice tight with unshed tears when he speaks again. 

"Shit mags, a guy like me?" His voice cuts off at the end of the question and Magnus has to physically hold himself down. He stares at the bottle, bending artificial light, and is struck by how many times this has happened. That's not exactly true, of course, for all twenty-odd times Roddy has climbed through his window, drunk or not, he's never cried. But this moment encompasses forever, Roddy just out of reach, always cringing behind a smile. There they are, not doing what they know they should. A better man might speak, a better man might move, a better man would know what to do. 

Magnus sits there, and that has to count for something. He'd sit there until every last star in the sky blinks out of existence until they are nothing but bones. Magnus would do this every night for a thousand years, but he's not sure he could make it any better.


End file.
